


What life looks like from up above (and down below)

by cheesethesecond



Category: Boy Meets World
Genre: Family Drama, Family Feels, Gen, Hugs, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Shawn Hunter Gets a Hug, Shawn Hunter Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 13:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14261676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheesethesecond/pseuds/cheesethesecond
Summary: Jon isn’t a natural at this whole “raising a teenager” thing, but, well. He’s trying his best.That doesn’t always mean he gets it right.





	What life looks like from up above (and down below)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in over a year and a half, and now, I return from an obscure fandom hole with fic from a 1990s sitcom. The heart wants what the heart wants, I guess. Still, since it's been over a year and a half, I ask that you be gentle. I'm undoubtedly a little rusty. Still love those hugs, though.
> 
> This takes place during season three.

It’s at the end of lunch hour a few months after Shawn moves in, their feet kicked up on chairs in a mostly-empty cafeteria, when Eli nudges Jon and asks, “So what’s it like, being a new dad?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Ha ha,” he says through a mouthful of his sandwich.

“Losing sleep? No social life? Have you bought locks for the cabinets and little plastic covers for the electrical sockets yet?”

“C’mon, Eli, Hunter’s not a newborn,” Jon scoffs. “Though you might be onto something with those cabinet locks. I’d love to keep a bag of potato chips around for more than an hour.”

“I’m just saying, man. A year ago you were a happy bachelor and now you’re raising a fifteen-year-old. You know how teenagers are. You teach them for a living. But you can’t tell me it’s been the easiest thing in the world actually living with one.”

Jon shrugs. “What do you want me to say? Of course it’s not, but…I don’t know. It’s not like I’m actually _raising_ Hunter, you know. I’m…stepping in temporarily. To keep an eye on him.”

“Uh huh,” Eli says. “You keep telling yourself that.”

“I will,” Jon says, “because it’s the truth.” He gets up and throws the rest of his food away, no longer hungry. Jon likes to think he’s the kind of man who admits when he’s wrong, but that doesn’t mean he has to admit how right Eli actually is.

He doesn’t have to admit how much time he spends staring into his kitchen cabinets, wondering if the sort of stuff he eats is the sort of stuff a teenager should be eating. He’s been reading the nutritional information on the back of macaroni and cheese boxes, wondering if he’s feeding Shawn too much of it. Just a few nights ago, while he and Shawn were devouring a pizza, he caught himself thinking, “Is Shawn eating enough fruit?” Two months ago, he didn’t even care if _he_ was eating enough fruit.

Jon knows it’s ridiculous. He’s a decent cook. He eats well enough. And he was a teenager once. He ate buckets of mac and cheese and turned out alright.

Still, the next morning, as Shawn slings his backpack over his shoulder and heads for the door, Jon offers him an apple. Just pulls it out of the refrigerator and hands it to Shawn with instructions to “Eat this,” like it’s something he does every day.

Shawn raises an eyebrow. “Jon, buddy. You know, if you’re trying to poison me or something, you should really be less weird about it.”

“Get to class.”

“I’m just saying.”

“ _Go_.”

Shawn takes the apple anyway, and Jon hears a loud crunch before the door shuts behind him.

He’s so far out of his depth here. 

He’s astounded daily— _hourly_ —by the number of things he doesn’t know. He has no idea when to scold Shawn, when to take it easy and when to lay down the law. Should he discipline Shawn for coming home late? He doesn’t even know when late _is_.

Sometimes he barely sees Shawn all day, between breakfast in the morning, class, and when Shawn strolls in at night, laid-back as can be. To Shawn’s credit, he doesn’t seem like he’s hiding anything from Jon, doesn’t act guilty or defensive. Still, one night, Jon tries out a reprimand just to see how it fits.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he asks, hands on his hips, while Shawn is hanging up his jacket.

Shawn cocks his head. “It’s ten-o’clock,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Isn’t it?” He frowns and checks his watch.

It’s then Jon realizes: Shawn is trying, too. They’ve never discussed curfews. But Shawn is home on purpose, at a time that seems reasonable to him. At _someone’s_ curfew.

It’s then Jon realizes: they’re both in so far over their heads, they can’t even see the surface.

And that’s not even the worst of it.

The anxiety gets to him the most at night, when he’s wide awake, staring at the ceiling, drumming his fingers to the beat of the formless uneasiness thrumming through him. He’s tried ignoring it, falling asleep despite it, shutting it up with deep breathing exercises, cigarettes, and sleeping pills. But he’s found only one thing helps: a three-am trip to the kitchen for a glass of water, where he can sit directly beneath the loft where Shawn sleeps and listen to him breathe.

He has a vague memory from when he was a kid, of his father coming into his room when he thought Jon was asleep, resting his hand on Jon’s back and counting his breaths until he was satisfied Jon would still be there in the morning. Jon’s not sure if that’s what this is. He doesn’t know what this is, exactly, if he’s convinced Shawn will sneak out when he’s not watching, that Shawn will bolt if he’s not careful. All he knows is that he unwinds at the sound of Shawn’s soft snores, suddenly can’t rest until he has proof of Shawn resting.

It becomes enough of a ritual that Jon stops thinking about it. Until one night, as he’s shuffling out of his room, he notices the light from the TV. Notices Shawn on the couch, watching it.

He hesitates in the hallway, tries to puzzle out if this is one of those “scolding” moments. Should he send Shawn back to bed in a huff? Point out all the times Shawn has fallen asleep in his class? But something about Shawn’s posture—his heavy eyes and slumped shoulders, the pillow wrapped up in his arms—suggests he should lay off.

He resumes his journey to the kitchen, clearing his throat so as not to startle Shawn. “Never took you for an insomniac,” he says, filling a glass from the faucet.

“Could same the same thing about you,” Shawn says after a moment, his voice groggy.

“Yeah, well, we all have our vices.”

“Your vice is tap water?”

“And yours is apparently,” Jon sits on the arm of the couch, “infomercials. Huh.”

Shawn smiles a little. “They were my dad’s favorite thing to watch. He used to say, ‘Most entertainin’ thing a man can do is watch some poor sucker try and sell him something he doesn't need. Even more entertainin’ when they succeed.’”

Jon laughs in spite of himself, though he doesn’t miss how Shawn refers to Chet in the past tense. “Mind if I join you?”

Shawn yawns and gestures to the spot beside him. “It’s your couch.”

Jon bites his tongue. He’s tried to tell Shawn _what’s mine is yours_ so many times, in so many different ways. He doesn’t have it in him to argue the point again, doesn’t want to send Shawn’s hackles up when they’re stuck together in this tired, hazy space between night and morning. He slides down to the couch, scoots close enough so that his arm bumps Shawn’s, and frowns at the slight, steady tremor running through him. “You cold?”

Shawn shrugs. “Maybe a little. No big deal.”

“I can turn the heat up.”

“Nah, it's fine, don't—”

“Hold on a second.” Before Shawn can protest further, Jon darts to the bedroom and returns with an old sweater. “Here.”

Shawn blinks at the sweater, like he can’t quite figure it—or Jon—out, before taking it and pulling it over his head. “Thanks.”

“You know, Shawn…if you need something. Anything. You can ask me.”

“I know.” Shawn smiles, not the shit-eating grin Jon sees a million times a day, but something softer, more sincere, almost sad. “You don’t have to worry so much, Jon. You’re doing alright.”

“Thanks, Hunter. I appreciate that.” Jon, embarrassingly, has to cough to get his voice working again. “All A’s on my report card, then?”

“Well…” And there’s that patented Hunter smirk. “I think you’re averaging a high B. But I believe, if you work hard enough, you can get those grades up by the end of the year.”

“Wow, I’m touched.”

“I’d hate to see all that potential go to waste.”

“Alright, smartass, that’s enough out of you.” Jon gives Shawn a little shove, ruffles his hair and stretches his arm out along the back of the couch. “Be quiet and watch your infomercials.”

They fall into a comfortable silence. As the hour gets earlier, Shawn starts blinking slower, listing closer to Jon, shifting around like he’s trying to get comfortable without drawing Jon’s attention. Jon wonders if he should just wrap his arm around Shawn and pull him close, or if that would send him running. He knows Shawn isn’t made of glass, but he feels like whatever bubble they’re in is fragile. He’s made Shawn feel safe entirely by accident. The only thing he could do on purpose right now is screw that up.

So he sits still, breathes evenly and deeply, and waits. And eventually, Shawn leans into him all on his own, his head dropping to Jon’s shoulder, fast asleep.

— —

Jon’s spontaneous late-night hangouts with Shawn happen often enough that, while he wouldn’t exactly call it a routine, he starts wondering if he should put a stop to it. He may not know everything about taking care of teenagers, but he’s pretty sure they need a lot of sleep, and from what he can tell, Shawn’s not getting much at all.

He tries suggesting once, after their third infomercial, that they call it a night.

“You don’t have to stay up,” Shawn counters. “I’m alright here, you go to bed.”

Another night, just as Shawn’s drifting off, Jon tries to catch him half-aware and get a little more information out of him. “Have you always had this much trouble sleeping, Hunter? Is that why you can’t string two thoughts together in my class?"

Shawn sniffs, shakes his head and straightens up, abruptly more awake. He stares pointedly at the TV. Jon can feel the chill in the space between them. “Not always.”

“But sometimes.”

“I guess.”

“Well, what is it? Weird dreams?”

“Sometimes.”

“About?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Do you remember every dream you have?” Shawn glares at Jon, but there’s a hint of pleading in his eyes. “I’m tired, Jon, can we just drop it?”

“Okay,” Jon agrees, “sure.” When Shawn eventually falls asleep, he does so with his head tipped back and slightly away from Jon.

They never talk about it in the morning, never acknowledge that they even saw one another in the middle of the night. And, to Jon’s disappointment, nothing gets any easier. They still get on each other’s nerves. Some days Shawn is funny and bright, and Jon enjoys being around him. Others, he’s moody and sullen, snapping at Jon for every little thing, and Jon’s not good enough at being a parent—sorry, guardian—not to snap back. Shawn’s as disruptive and impulsive at school as he ever was, and one day, when he mouths off, Jon decides to call him on it.

“So what is it this time?” Shawn asks, indifferent when Jon calls him up after class. “Detention? You want a ten page paper on how I should keep my big mouth shut?”

Jon sits on the edge of his desk and crosses his arms over his chest. “What _is_ it with you, Hunter?”

Shawn’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I thought we were buddies. How come you’re acting like this?”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Shawn goes rigid, and he works his jaw for a moment before he replies. “Are we done here?”

“No, we’re not done here.”

“Then give me my punishment so we can be.”

“Hey.” Jon stands, pokes his finger at Shawn’s chest. “You don’t get to talk to me like that. _I’m_ the one in charge."

“Really? Because I thought we were _buddies_ ,” Shawn spits. “Or do only _you_ get to use that one on me?”

Jon opens his mouth to respond, but can’t for the life of him figure out an answer. “Detention,” he finally sputters. “For the rest of the week.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Shawn says, and leaves Jon floundering, wondering where the hell he went so wrong.

For the next few days, Jon fumes. Shawn sulks. They move around each other like two strangers living in the same house. They’re increasingly on edge, simmering towards a boiling point, waiting for the explosion.

It’s Jon, surprisingly, who fucks up first.

He’s on a date with a friend of Eli’s, and they’re hitting it off magnificently. She’s funny, and smart, and beautiful, and Jon’s having a lot more fun than he anticipated. He’s not sure if he’s as smitten with her as he’s acting, or if he’s playing it up because he’s more relaxed than he’s been in months. He feels like himself again, confident in his skin, free of responsibility and judgment and the whims of a hormonal kid he agonizes to understand, and when his date invites him up for a nightcap, he goes readily.

It’s a _good_ nightcap.

The next time he looks at the clock, it’s two in the morning. He ignores the twinge of guilt, stays for another fifteen minutes, a half-hour, an hour, and when he finally drags himself away, he feels young and invincible, like he could shoot sparks from his fingertips. When his date kisses him goodnight, he almost giggles. He smiles all the way home. He turns the key in the lock and opens the door slowly, quietly, so as not to wake Shawn.

He shouldn’t have bothered.

In the living room, Shawn is slumped low on the couch, emanating exhaustion in the dim light of the television. He chews on a fingernail while Jon locks the door, then nods in his direction. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he jokes with a tight smile, but there’s no actual humor behind his eyes. He just looks drained. 

Jon’s stomach plummets. “Shawn, look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to be out so late, but I lost track of time and—”

Shawn scowls, cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “It’s fine. Forget it. Good date?”

“I should’ve called,” Jon says, ignoring Shawn’s question. “Or at least told you where I was.”

“I said it’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” He flicks off the TV, pushes himself up from the couch, shoves past Jon, and heads for the stairs.

“I’m sorry if you were worried.”

“I wasn’t.”

“It was careless and irresponsible of me.”

“It’s your life, Jon, you can do whatever you want.”

“No, it’s not just my life, it’s your life too.” Jon takes a step towards the stairs. “You get that, right? You get a say in this.”

“If you say so.”

“Shawn, c’mon.”

“ _What?_ ” Shawn spins around so fast he stumbles down a step. “What do you want?”

Jon spreads his hands wide. “I want us to talk this out.”

“Talk _what_ out?” Shawn asks, his voice wavering between octaves. “Nothing happened. So you stayed out late, so what? You said so yourself, Jon, you’re in charge here. We don’t have to talk about every little thing, okay? Just let me go to bed.”

Shawn turns his back on Jon and barges up the stairs. He might not have a door to slam, but Jon gets the message.

He lays awake for a long time, tosses and turns and rubs at his face and wishes he could go back in time and stop himself from being such an idiot.

In the morning, he slinks out into the kitchen with all the bearing of a kicked dog, and finds that Shawn has not only made him breakfast and coffee, but set out two aspirin and a glass of water for him, as well.

No one in the world deserves Shawn Hunter’s quiet forgiveness, Jon thinks as he swallows the aspirin with his coffee, least of all him. The pills don’t go down easy. The coffee is too bitter. He drinks it all anyway.

— —

Jon doesn’t sleep well the next night, or the night after. He wants to apologize, make sure Shawn knows _he_ knows he screwed up, but Shawn won’t let him. For all his posturing, Shawn doesn’t hide his emotions well, so Jon knows he’s not completely over it. But he can’t find a way to lower Shawn’s walls, sneak past his defenses and plant something that sticks.

He tries to abandon his late-night trips to the kitchen, stays away for a week, two weeks, until he gets so restless he can barely lie still, can’t take staring at the ceiling for a second longer. He throws off the blankets with a snarl, swings his feet to the floor, tugs at his hair, and surrenders.

The TV isn’t on, which is why Jon walks right past the couch and almost misses Shawn hunched there, curled over himself, knees pulled up tight and face buried in the space between his legs and chest.

“Hunter?” Jon asks. He pitches his voice low, but Shawn jumps anyway, his breath catching as he whips his head up. His face is wet, eyes red, bottom lip caught between his teeth and bitten hard so he doesn’t make any sounds, and Jon’s heart shatters. He hurries over to the couch and puts a hand on Shawn’s hitching back. “Shawn, what’s the matter?”

Shawn drags a hand over his face, sniffles and shakes his head. “Sorry, nothing, it’s fine, sorry,” he babbles, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes and muttering, as if Jon can’t hear him, “God, get it together, come _on_ …”

Jon catches Shawn’s wrists and holds them, firm but gentle. “No, you’re crying. It’s not nothing.”

“Sorry,” Shawn gasps at his knees.

“Hey. Don’t apologize. Hey.” Jon grabs Shawn’s chin, lifts his face so he has no choice but to look at Jon. “Breathe. Look at me. There is _nothing_ you have to apologize for, okay? Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing, it's nothing.”

“C’mon, I know I’m new at this, but at least let me _try_ and fix it.”

Shawn winces, jerks his head away. “It’s _nothing_. I woke up and forgot where I was for a second. Just got a little freaked out and didn’t know if…” He stops for a breath, then another, like he can’t quite get enough air. “Didn’t know if you were still here. That’s all.”

“Aw, Shawn,” Jon says. He puts a hand on Shawn’s forehead and pushes his hair back, realizes maybe he’s spent too long waiting for Shawn to come to him, when he should have been meeting him halfway all along. Maybe it’s time for him to start calling the shots, like the adult he’s supposed to be. He wraps an arm around Shawn and tugs him close, and Shawn falls willingly into him, buries his face in Jon’s chest and digs his hands into Jon’s shirt. “I’m right here,” Jon says.

“I know,” Shawn insists.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I kn—” Shawn’s voice catches on a sob. Then another.

“I swear, kid, I’m not going anywhere.” Jon lets him cry, rubs his hand up and down his back as Shawn shudders and fights to calm himself down. He doesn’t say much else, doesn't figure Shawn needs to hear any more promises, any more words he can mistrust, misconstrue and twist around in his head. He doesn't need anyone else to say they'll stick around; he just needs someone to  _do_ it.

It takes Shawn a while to settle down. Even when he’s done crying, he stays close to Jon, clenches and unclenches his fists while he tries to even out his breathing, like he doesn’t want Jon to see him until he’s composed again. So Jon takes the lead, pulls away with a comforting squeeze to his shoulder, brings him a glass of water and a warm washcloth and wipes the sticky tears from Shawn’s face while he drinks.

“Next time you freak out like that,” Jon says as Shawn drains the rest of the glass, “you come get me.”

Shawn shakes his head. “I don’t need—”

“I don’t care.” Jon takes Shawn’s face in his hands. “You come _get_ me. You wake me up. You tell me when you feel bad so I can help you. Understand?”

 “Jon, I’m already…I don’t need any more favors, alright? You’ve done…enough. More than enough. I'm not gonna ask for anything else.”

“You’re not asking,” Jon says. “I’m _telling_ you. Okay?”

Shawn swallows hard. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay.” Jon plants a kiss on his forehead and releases him.

“Thank you,” Shawn says suddenly, like he’s trying to get the words out before they disappear. “I can’t…I know…” He stands and looks Jon square in the eye. “I know this hasn't been easy. I’m not easy. But…just…thank you. I mean it.”

“Any time,” Jon says. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t push Shawn to accept more assurance than he’s ready for. “ _I_ mean it.”

It’s not until Jon follows him up the stairs that Shawn protests again. “Jon, really, I’m okay now.”

“I know.” Jon perches on the side of Shawn’s bed. “But I’m gonna sit right here until you’re asleep and make sure you’re okay. Because it makes _me_ feel better, alright?”

Shawn, for all he’s trying, still looks baffled, but he shrugs and climbs into bed. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Shawn pulls the blankets up around him, tucks an arm under his pillow, and scoots around until he’s comfortable. He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them, stares up at Jon for a moment, then closes them again. “Hey, Jon?”

“What is it?”

“You said I could ask for anything, right?”

“Anything at all.”

A little smirk tugs at the corner of Shawn’s mouth. “Can I have an extension on my English paper?”

Jon groans. “You little shit.”

“Hey, you said anything!”

“You’re real funny, Hunter, you know that?” Jon says, grabbing a pillow and thumping Shawn over the head with it. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

Shawn laughs, lively and content, and falls asleep within minutes.

Jon stays there on the side of his bed for a long time afterward, resting a hand on Shawn’s back, counting his breaths until he’s satisfied Shawn will still be there in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Cecilia and the Satellite" by Andrew McMahon. Anyone who wants to yell about how much they love Shawn Hunter, please feel free to come visit me [on Tumblr](http://cheesethesecond.tumblr.com/)! I'm also rewatching the entirety of BMW and writing Shawn Hunter primers for newbies, so feel free to [watch along](http://cheesethesecond.tumblr.com/tagged/cheese's%20shawn%20hunter%20primer)!


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